


Attar of Roses

by AirgiodSLV



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: M/M, Multi, Porn with Feelings, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-09
Updated: 2020-08-09
Packaged: 2021-03-06 02:34:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25795966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AirgiodSLV/pseuds/AirgiodSLV
Summary: Nicky and Joe don’t do this often, but it’s hardly the first time, either. What they are to each other is so unshakable that the invitation of another man into their bed is a rare spice, something different to change their routine, like the one time in a thousand that Nicky chooses hazelnut gelato over pistachio.
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, Nicky | Nicolo di Genova/Original Male Character
Comments: 24
Kudos: 239





	Attar of Roses

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to Linny for beta-reading.

Joe takes a sip from the wine glass in his hand, savoring the sweet apricot juice on his tongue. It’s best like this, chilled but not diluted by melting ice, which is why he’s taken to using Nicky’s long-stemmed wine goblets. Joe carries the glass with him to the bedroom, hearing a spike in the muffled noises within and listening for the pitch of a particular groan, the whisper of a sigh. He stops in the doorway, leaning against the frame, to appreciate the sight before him.

It’s a beautiful view. He would sketch it, but he already has, hundreds of times, and Nicky rolls his eyes now when Joe’s fingers itch to trace the same familiar lines. Nicky smiles at him, too, which makes it worth everything, but Joe doesn’t follow the impulse just now. It’s not as compelling as walking forward to see Nicky from all angles, taking in the jump of muscles in his abdomen and the exposed line of his throat.

He’s on his hands and knees, head hanging forward, spread wide in a way that will have his legs trembling before the end. Behind him, kneeling upright with his hands on Nicky’s hips, is a well-muscled blond they found on Grindr and invited over for the evening.

The blond - Pierre, Pietro...Nicky knows, and Joe had introduced himself, but he’s distracted right now - looks up at Joe’s approach. Nicky doesn’t, yet, but he knows Joe is there. There’s no surprise on his face when Joe tilts his chin up with gentle fingers and leans down for a kiss. Nicky’s mouth is soft and wet, lips swollen and tasting faintly of salt. There was a blowjob earlier, as part of the warm-up, when Joe had left them to get acquainted and pour himself a drink.

Nicky and Joe don’t do this often, but it’s hardly the first time, either. What they are to each other is so unshakable that the invitation of another man into their bed is a rare spice, something different to change their routine, like the one time in a thousand that Nicky chooses hazelnut gelato over pistachio.

Joe occasionally looks elsewhere, too, though his reasons are different—he takes another man to bed when he craves a rough violence that he can’t stand in himself with Nicky, that he won’t ever allow to touch Nicky’s skin. They’ve seen centuries spattered with blood and death, but what they share together has only ever been passion and a deep, aching love. On the rare occasion when Joe’s mood turns dark and his skin crawls with the desire for a struggle in bed, he prefers to find another outlet.

For Nicky, it’s physical as well—feeling used, grounded in his body, in pure sensation. They share the experience with a third person sometimes, when the impulse takes them, but they’re too often focused on one another then for it to be truly satisfying for anyone.

On the bed, the tempo shifts, picking up, and Nicky’s left hand skids an inch forward on the sheet, catching his balance.

If it were Joe, he’d slow down now, urge Nicky to reach for the bars of the headboard and trace the dip in his lower back, pressing down on the arch of Nicky’s spine with an open palm to tilt Nicky’s hips back at just the right angle. He’d slide Nicky’s right knee forward, as well, just a few inches, because it’s better for Nicky when they’re just slightly off-center.

It must still be good, though, because Nicky’s head has fallen forward again and the roots of his hair are dark with sweat, his breathing quick and shallow and punctuated by stuttered moans, so Joe doesn’t say anything. This isn’t his moment. He can do all of that later, as many times as they like, anywhere in the world.

He sips his apricot juice. He sits on the edge of the bed, careful not to unbalance the mattress, and watches the flush creep down the back of Nicky’s neck. Smiling a little, he reaches beneath Nicky’s tensed stomach to tickle his fingertips along the underside of Nicky’s cock, and is rewarded with a low groan and a helpless flex of Nicky’s hips that spurs his current lover on to greater effort.

Joe goes still when Pierre - Joe thinks it is Pierre, after all - bends down to bite Nicky’s shoulder, his teeth sinking in enough to leave a flushed pink mark, causing Nicky to exhale a low hiss of pain.

Joe would tear anyone to pieces who actually hurt Nicky, but Nicky knows what he’s thinking, as always, and looks up through a disheveled fall of hair to catch his eye and smile, faintly. Joe mirrors the smile and forces himself to relax, taking another sip of juice to calm the spark of old reflexes.

It’s partly his fault, anyway. He’s still dressed - barefoot, but in slacks and an open-collared shirt - and that’s a statement which can imply things about their relationship, about dominance and preferences, and what each of them might like in the bedroom.

It’s an incorrect assumption, but Nicky’s smile had said _all is well_ , so Joe doesn’t interfere. Pierre slows down for a moment to slide his palm forward over Nicky’s back, urging him down onto his forearms. Joe leaves them and goes to draw a bath as the sounds of coupling escalate toward an impending climax. He still has time—he knows the subtle shifts of breath and sound that mean Nicky is close, every noise he makes in passion inscribed tenfold on Joe’s heart, and they’re not quite there yet.

He reappears for the finale, because he knows without needing to ask that Nicky will be looking for him—will want him there at the end. Joe never tires of it, either, and his hand presses lightly against the swell in his trousers, roused by cries so familiar, Joe would know the voice behind them from a single whisper in the dark.

Pierre finishes first, Nicky’s cock swollen and untouched beneath him—but he isn’t an ungenerous lover, because after a few breaths to recover, he’s turned Nicky over and is sucking his cock with determination, until Nicky’s fatigued leg muscles twitch and shake, and he comes with a choked-off shout.

It’s not Joe’s name—not the one he uses now, anyway. It isn’t _not_ his name, either. Joe goes back to the bed and stoops over, smiling, to press another kiss to Nicky’s slack lips. They curve, slowly, into an exhausted smile at his touch.

After they’ve cleaned up, Joe invites Pierre to stay for coffee—just because this is a mutually-agreeable arrangement doesn’t preclude politeness—and Pierre declines just as politely, explaining that he has an early morning. They all smile at one another and exchange friendly farewells, and Joe locks the door behind Pierre when he leaves, returning to the bedroom where Nicky is still sprawled, naked and loose-limbed.

“So much more convenient than a bathhouse,” Nicky says, and Joe laughs, remembering decades and centuries past, and marveling at the modern fashion of mobile phones and anonymous apps.

“I drew a bath,” Joe murmurs, leaning over to kiss Nicky again—because he can, because this man is his and Joe belongs to him in turn. When Joe rests his hand on Nicky’s bare chest, he can feel the reassuring thump of Nicky’s heartbeat, slowing now from its exertions.

“I can smell it,” Nicky answers, smiling again. They’re speaking Italian, as they often do in private, a language Joe learned long ago so that he could better understand the man who spoke it. “Attar of roses." He inhales deeply. “It smells good.”

“Better than you, right now,” Joe teases, and they both laugh, knowing it for the lie it is. Joe buries his face in the curve of Nicky’s neck to breathe him in, and kisses the salt sweat from his skin, feeling the vibration of Nicky’s laughter against his lips.

If Joe isn’t jealous of a one-night stand, it’s because he has this—Nicky sinking into a steaming bath and sighing as the heat eases his muscles, leaning his back against Joe’s chest so that Joe can drape an arm around him. Nicky’s skin is already slick with the oil mixed into the bathwater, and there are white flower petals stuck to his thighs. A white rose, not red—they learned a very long time ago that a patch of bright-blooming crimson on the other’s skin brought on memories that were anything but relaxing.

Nicky’s hand comes up to cover Joe’s arm, his head sinking back against Joe’s shoulder. The tub is small for two grown men, but they’ve never let that stop them from sharing a moment together. Joe scoops water with his free hand to spill over Nicky’s chest, remembering times they bathed with oil alone in the desert, scraping it from their skins until they gleamed.

“O, mio cor,” Nicky murmurs, and Joe answers in kind, “Mio tesoro,” and kisses Nicky’s familiar, beloved mouth. There is no room for jealousy in a heart so full, when everything he has everything he’s ever wanted, for as close to eternity as anyone could ask.


End file.
